


Alicante

by peevee



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (1994)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Pink Rig</i>, the War Boys called it, sliding their fingers together in blissful reverence. The colour of fresh-grown skin, a sheet of chrome whipping behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alicante

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired entirely by [this](http://iampeevee.tumblr.com/post/120761466281/stavvers-can-the-next-mad-max-film-feature) tumblr post, and my rewatching of [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ksvm7fovhJQ) from Priscilla and how gloriously well it would slot into the Mad Max universe.

Max Rockatansky sat on the hood of his bug and watched as a little cloud of dust crept slowly closer across the flats. He stuck a piece of dried meat in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully; the dust cloud grew.

_The Pink Rig_ , the War Boys called it, sliding their fingers together in blissful reverence. The colour of fresh-grown skin, a sheet of chrome whipping behind it. Max pulled out his teleglass, peered into the dust and saw a thousand tiny chips of shining steel pushing the sun in all directions through the cloud. Flame spewed out to light the dust up, and as the rig drew closer a figure all chromed climbed to the top of the shining chips and lashed the flame from side to side. 

Max put the teleglass aside and worked at the meat a little more. He was almost dry, and this rig was rushing over the salt flats, souped up, heavy with guzzoline. He waited for them to spot him.

His bug was a flimsy thing, with a thin shell of plastiglass and paint that warped under his weight when he sat on it, but a jug of juice could take him a hundred klicks or more, flying slick over mud and sand. The Pink Rig chugged closer, still spitting flame and fractured sunlight, thick tank tread eating up the sand. Slowly, it began to turn towards him, and Max slid back into the bug, easing his hand over the stick.

A sound rose in the air, over the tender thrum of his bug and the roar of the rig. A sweet, high note that threaded through Max like nothing he’d ever heard before. He found himself leaning forward, straining for more as it grew and soared and then was suddenly silent, and he shivered with something like anticipation. The Pink Rig was within half a klick now, and Max tightened his fist and watched as it began to slow.

It stopped, facing him, engines spitting and cooling. Belching exhaust pipes curled up the sides like fat fingers. There was a cabin shell stuck to the front like an ugly pink forehead, too dark inside to see, and on top the figure in chrome slunk behind a gunnel, spurts of flame bursting upward. 

Slowly, an amplifier emerged.

_"Whaddya want?"_

Max reached towards his feet, not taking his eyes off the rig. An empty juice-tin was wedged against the gearbox, and he dangled it from the window, where the rig driver could see.

_"Uh huh,"_ came the voice, sharp and tinny, _"and whaddya got?"_

Max dropped the juice-tin and reached across the inside of the bug, to where a bag slumped in the side seat.

_"Hurry up!"_ said the rig driver.

He had six left; plump, with a soft fragrant fuzz, cool from the dark. His mouth ached at the smell of them, but he swallowed thickly and showed his hand again, fingers cupped.

_"Oh, Christ,"_ the rig driver said, faintly. _"If that’s a painted rock I’ll cut your bloody balls off."_

Max looked up, quick, to where the figure in chrome was scrambling down the side of the rig. It made it past the cabin door, before the rig driver burst out and caught up, tackling it to the ground in a flurry of dust. Max snatched his hand back inside, foot touching down.

“Wait!” the rig driver shouted, “wait, no!” 

The scuffle intensified, dust clouding up around them. 

“Stay _still_ , you turd!”

“Fuck off, get off, get off me, you big fat--”

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it! We’ve got the juice. Get back in your shoe and shut your bloody trap, alright?”

There was a short pause as they stared each other down, then the figure in chrome stomped back towards the rig. The rig driver turned towards Max, shading his eyes.

“You got two?” he yelled. He was dressed in a pink the same dirty shade as the rig, a knife on each hip and a blue rope hooked like a sash over his shoulder. He wore an elaborate hat of the same blue rope, mouth painted to match.

Max picked up the juice-tin and shook it again.

“Two for two tins, it’s a deal. You gonna show your face?”

Slowly, Max pushed open the door of the bug and climbed out, tin dangling from one finger.

“Need another,” he grunted, jerking his head towards the bug’s trunk. 

“Yeah yeah, alright. Go on then.” His hands looked relaxed, but they were close enough to the knives to keep Max’s fingers tucked into his pocket, where he kept a neat little throwing blade.

“Chuck ‘em over, then, come on,” said the driver. 

He scooped the tins off the sand and backed away, turning to skip back towards the rig. Max let the sweet earthy smell fill his nostrils as he waited, pulled out the teleglass to watch as the driver siphoned his tank. 

Behind the flames, the chrome figure glinted in the sunlight.

As the driver capped up the tank, Max opened his bag. He walked sideways, away from the vehicles, drew the two tomatoes from his bag and nestled them in the soft sand. The driver dropped his guzzoline between the rig and the bug, but his eyes were fixed on the fruit.

“Christ,” he said, taking a step closer. “Where the fuck d’you get these, eh?”

“Grew,” said Max, edging towards the tins.

“I can smell ‘em from here,” said the driver. He flicked his eyes sideways. “Got more?”

“No,” said Max.

“There’s more juice in it for you.”

“No,” said Max. He picked up the tins, the sharp smell of guzzoline hitting the back of his throat. Two might get him to the citadel, or it might not.

He looked out over the salt flats, shimmering heat and dust.

“Your funeral,” said the driver. He dropped to his knees and picked up one of the tomatoes, inhaling deeply. The red was stark against the blue of his mouth as he licked at the skin.

On the rig, the figure in chrome was scrambling down again, shouting and running across the sand. Max backed towards the bug, a tin in each hand. 

He juiced up carefully, one eye on the Pink Rig as the driver pulled the figure in chrome up into the cabin and the engine began to chug. It turned in a slow circle, and as it pulled away there came the sweet high sound again; a woman’s voice, Max realised, more clear and true than any he had heard before. The sheet of chrome whipped from side to side as the rig picked up speed, and the voice rose and rose until it was swept up in a cloud of sand and dust, nothing left but tracks and the pulsing growl of the engine.

As Max leaned back onto the sun-hot buckled hood, he let his hand slip into the bag at his hip, eyes closing. The woman’s sweet voice echoed as he brought his cupped fingers to his mouth, nostrils flaring. Two tins. It would get him to the citadel. He bit down, and let the juice flood his mouth.


End file.
